


Build Wherever You Can

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, M/M, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Pride, Pride Festival, brief mention of cults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 05:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13850892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Grantaire?” Enjolras says. He looks like he’s having a hallucination brought on by heatstroke. Grantaire sympathizes.Modern-era AU. Enjolras demands a halt to the corporatization of Pride festivals, Les Amis follow in his footsteps, and all Grantaire wants is an iced tea and a nap.





	Build Wherever You Can

It’s business as usual at the latest ABC meeting. Enjolras is pontificating, the Amis are crowded around him, and Grantaire’s itching for a drink. If anything, this meeting is even worse, because with June coming around it’s time for Enjolras’ Annual Anti-Pride Rant.

This is the third year in a row Grantaire’s been subjected to it, and by now he could probably give the speech along with Enjolras. Homonormativity this, assimilation that; corporate sponsors and public spectacle and glorification of alcohol abuse. It’s all very prescriptive, and Grantaire’s never understood why Enjolras acts like the corporatization of Pride is the worst evil that’s ever befallen his cis white male self. 

Grantaire figures Enjolras has just about gotten to the call for a boycott, at which point the rest of the ABC will nod along and pretend they don’t already have tickets. 

“—Which is why this year, it’s our responsibility to change this toxic environment!” Enjolras says, triumphant. 

This is not in the script. 

“That’s right,” Enjolras continues. “We can no longer stand at the sidelines and pretend that our silence will effect change. I’ve talked with the other members of the executive committee, and we’re united in our decision: it’s time to march. We’ll be able to show ourselves on our own terms, and begin to advocate a healthier vision of Pride. What do you think?”

“Um,” Grantaire says from his corner.

“Yes, Grantaire?”

“It’s just, you know, I’ve already got plans that weekend.”   
Enjolras’ eyes narrow. “We’re working as a group to better the community, preparing to march at an event that’s uncharted territory for our organization, and you just happen to have plans?”

“Hey, some of us have priorities,” Grantaire says.

“Like what? Wasting your youth on sloth and booze?”

“Like facilitating alcohol abuse, as it so happens. Meeting some friends, hanging out downtown. Maybe I’ll come shoot the shit after you’re done changing the world.”

* * *

 

Midday in June is debilitatingly hot at the best of times. Given a couple hours on your feet, keeping up a smile while faced with a seething mass of humanity, the strongest man would break. Grantaire is barely a man at all by this point; he’s just a column of congealed sweat, held together by nothing but sheer will and the Thai tea he’s liberated from a nearby food truck. 

“WELCOME TO PRIDE!” Gavroche hollers for the hundredth time. He’s perched on a concrete road block less than a yard from Grantaire’s table, and his voice is pitched to carry. Grantaire wishes he’d brought earplugs. “FOR EVERYONE’S SAFETY, PLEASE OPEN YOUR BAGS TO BE SEARCHED. NO OUTSIDE DRINKS ALLOWED- yes,  _ you _ , I can smell the vodka in that slushie, you’re not fooling anyone. FOR 21-AND-OVER WRISTBANDS, STEP RIGHT THIS WAY. HAVE A GOOD DAY!”

“Nice try, kid,” Grantaire tells the teenager who must have borrowed her sister’s license, “but all you’re getting is a Shirley Temple. Next in line?”

The parade outside is almost over; the morning crowd is already in the park, and the next wave hasn’t hit yet. Grantaire takes a long drag of his tea and tries to fan himself with the brochure that the last group of missionaries left. It might as well go to some use. “God,” he says to Eponine, “why am I even here?”

“You’ve used so many fake IDs, I figured you could clock them,” she says.

“Yeah, but, like. Why am I here, here?” he asks. 

“Your choice. What did you tell your pals in the parade you were doing, again?”

“The truth?” She shoots him a disbelieving look. “Well, sort of the truth. I couldn’t show up, I already had plans, they involved getting people drunk. Which, technically, I am doing, so.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, and the crowd from the parade starts to show up. 

Grantaire’s world is reduced to license after license, wristband after wristband. Eponine’s lost even the faint trace of energy she had earlier, and Gavroche’s voice is giving out. One ID checked is one ID closer to the end of his shift, Grantaire tells himself, and almost believes it. Then, suddenly, the IDs fail to appear.

“Next in line,” Grantaire croaks. No response or ID is forthcoming. He looks up in irritation. “I  _ said _ , next in— oh.” 

Next in line is, it turns out, half of the ABC, with their glorious leader in front.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says. He looks like he’s having a hallucination brought on by heatstroke. Grantaire sympathizes.

They stare at each other in a moment of mutual exhausted befuddlement. 

“Weren’t you—?” Enjolras says, finally.

“I’ve got to keep the line going.” It’s a cop-out, and Grantaire knows that Enjolras knows it, but it’s still true. “I get off at two, if you want to talk then?”

“No, we should have this out, I’m the one at fault.”

“Enjolras, there’s dozens of people right behind you, all of whom are here to buy overpriced drinks in the name of charity. If you could  _ please _ keep the line moving along?”

Enjolras starts saying something about misunderstandings and parity; Grantaire’s too busy scanning the crowd to pay much attention. And like clockwork, the next batch of too-friendly hippies shows up, handing out pamphlets and free paper fans and treating the attendees with just a hint of condescension.

“Oh, great,” Grantaire says. “More missionaries.”

“Really? The pamphlet people?”

“They’re, like, a queer-friendly cult or something. Still a cult, though.”

Enjolras looks a little like a hound that’s just caught sight of a rabbit. “How queer-friendly, exactly?”

Well, if it gets Enjolras off Grantaire’s back… “Why don’t you go ask?”

Grantaire gets the Amis’ wristbands on in record time. The last he sees of either Enjolras or the possibly-a-cult, Enjolras is trailing the leader, demanding to know her position on queer adoption rights.

* * *

 

By the time Grantaire shuffles out of the front-of-park booth, he’s sweat through his shirt. He hasn’t eaten in six hours, he’s about to die of dehydration despite having made his way through three more teas, and he’s almost forgotten that Enjolras ever showed up.

Then a basket of cheese fries materializes in front of his face. “What?” Grantaire manages. 

“Come on,” says Enjolras, “you never turn down free food.” He shakes the fries a little, like he thinks Grantaire hasn’t realized they’re there.

Enjolras is right, and Grantaire’s starving. “Maybe somewhere less crowded?”

Grantaire leads Enjolras to a quiet spot— well, for Pride values of quiet— where the rows of vendors end, but where the crowd for the main stage doesn’t quite reach. There are a few trees, a picnic table. Grantaire sits down and goes to town on the fries.    
Enjolras doesn’t try to start a conversation. He doesn’t even really look at Grantaire. He’s sort of scanning the surrounding area, letting the silence stretch out between them.

“Fries are good,” Grantaire finally says, for lack of any better ideas.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “They’re from that Asian fusion taco truck.”   
“Huh.”   
“Yeah. Sweet potato fries with mole, I think. Maybe some queso fresco.”

And then Enjolras, miracle of miracles, stops talking. The sun’s hot, the silence is excruciating, and the fries are gone. It’s up to Grantaire to save this conversation. 

“You wanted to talk?” he says.

“Yes,” says Enjolras, as though he’s dragging the word up from some great depth. “About that. I think that, due to my words at the last meeting, and given current events, I may. Um. Owe you an apology.”   
“Oh god, I really am hallucinating,” Grantaire realizes.

Enjolras glares. “You don’t have to rub my face in it.”   
“I’m not, I’m just… absorbing. It’s not like you’re big on admitting when you’re wrong.”

“And I would have said it’s not like you to show up on the front lines,” says Enjolras. “Looks like today’s a new day for both of us.”

“Not that new. I’ve been doing this for— huh. Four years?” 

“So every time you talked about how you were going to get wasted with your friends, or, I don’t know, have some sordid Pride-fueled excess, you were really volunteering?”

“Well, not every time.” Getting through a drag show sober was pretty much impossible, even if you were part of the stage crew. “But most of them, yeah.”

Enjolras’ face is doing something odd. “God,” he says, “I really have misjudged you.” 

“What, in ABC meetings? That’s not a front. You need to get knocked down a peg sometimes, and nobody else is up for the job.”

“Not that, but this.” He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the entire festival. “The way you act, I never thought you’d volunteered a day in your life, let alone that you would be this dedicated.”

“I could have told you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Grantaire says. “I’m still not joining your next picket line or marching for traumatized puppies, or whatever you’re planning.”

“But you care,” says Enjolras, like he’s turning the fact over in his head. “You really do, or you wouldn’t be here. So why hide it?”

“I don’t know. You spent most of college vilifying Pride, for one thing, and for another, the ABC’s never been big on lowkey contributions. I figured if they— well, more to the point, if  _ you _ — knew, I’d get press-ganged into big demonstrations, and I’m not about that life. They also serve who only stand and check IDs, you know?”

“You could do so much more, though,” Enjolras starts to say. 

Grantaire’s heard this before, and he doesn’t need it repeated. “I’m no Liberty Leading the People, Enjolras. I’m not an organizer and I’d rather not get arrested at a demonstration. There’s plenty of groundwork that needs doing, and there’s no glory or fun in it, but it’s what I can give.”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment, but it’s not an uncomfortable quiet. It’s more like he’s mulling that over, fitting it into his world view. “That makes sense,” he says. He checks his watch and makes to get up. “I should go find the others; Jehan’s been on his feet for hours and the rest are probably drunk by now.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says, “if you want to see the good Pride does, I’m handing food out at the drag queen softball game tomorrow.”

Enjolras doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“The food’s free?” Grantaire tries. “And the proceeds from the game go to HIV research.”

“Sounds good,” Enjolras says. He grins a little. It’s a foreign expression to Grantaire, but he wouldn’t mind seeing more of it. “See you there.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one clinches it: I do, in fact, go here.  
> Thanks to my betas- biscoff, duessa, nopers, and lucifer.  
> Title is from Rimbaud's poem [ "To A Reason." ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/54557/to-a-reason)  
> Yes, drag queen softball is a real thing, and if there are donations involved they generally go to charity.  
> If you're able, I highly encourage volunteering at your local Pride festival- tending bar, putting up tents, or just checking attendees' bags for an hour or two. Pride can't be Pride without people willing to do the groundwork.


End file.
